Little Fingers! (12 page)

“
No! I do not
sleep around.”

“
You are
missing out, Inspector, although in your case buggery can make your
anus drop out.”

You shift
tack.

“
Tell me,”
you begin. “What is it like for a woman to make love to a
woman?”

I raise one
eyebrow. “You get paid by the police force, not to mention the tax
payer, to ask these sorts of questions?”

“
I am free to
ask any question that can lead me to the truth.”

“
In that
case, for the benefit of the greater knowledge of the police force,
I will tell you that making love to a woman, when you are a woman,
is a whole lot better than making love to most men. Tom was an
exception.”

“
And you
claim that you had left Tom Willows before he was
killed.”

“
Yes.”

“
Was he
dressed or undressed?”

“
Naked.”

“
Had you just
had carnal relations?”

“
Yes.”

“
Did you have
a fight, or angry words?”

“
No, we were
too busy fucking.”

“
Do you have
any idea who killed him?”

“
Yes.”

You pause,
surprised. “Will you tell me who you think it was?”

“
No.”

“
Do you
understand the situation you are in here? You could go to prison
for life, or you could be released and yourself be killed by the
murderer if he suspects that you know who he is.”

“
He
doesn't.”

“
If I can
arrest someone else with reasonable grounds to believe in their
guilt, I can let you go.”

“
You will let
me go anyway.”

You sit back
in your chair. “And what on earth makes you think that, Miss
Blackburn?”

“
Because you
know that I am innocent, and while you may have your faults, you
will not knowingly lock up an innocent person for twenty years.
Besides ……………”

“
Besides?”

“
Besides.”

Of course, I
do not know who killed Tom. How could I know? I barely know Tom, or
the village, or anything about the current situation. It seems to
me, though, that you will be more respectful of me if you think I
know who did it.

I watch your
grey eyes. I watch your lips working. I hear your mind. Much as I
hate you, I feel strangely at ease with you. It is almost familial.
Our rhythms are the same. We can insult each other in the same
breath and we will literally be conspirators. I have never had this
experience before, of utter safety with another human being. I am
totally sure of you.

I know the
story between us as it unfolds. You are as fixated with me as I am,
in an unexpected way, with you. It completely escapes me why I
would bother with you for an instant. You are not especially
attractive in any way I can think of, but there is still that
relational chemistry between us. It is not sexual on my side. I
would not necessarily be revolted by the idea, but it is at least
lower than 500 on my list of desirable things to do, somewhere
below doing the washing up or taxing the car.

For you, I
realise it is different. The fixation is physical as well as
mental, and it started in this interview. I behave in a way that is
atypical, challenging to your authority, playful, wounding, brutal
even.

Like many of
your kind, determined bullies committed to a crusade of
self-righteousness, you are vulnerable to the coolly efficient
counter-attack. At first you bite harder, then you admire and, in
my case, ultimately you are ensnared. You want to be with me. You
accord me powers that are almost supernatural. I do have a few of
those, I admit, yet I do not believe that those are the ones you
are thinking of.

I smile
affectionately at you. “You seem to be having some difficulty
keeping your tie straight.”

You give me a
“what on earth are you on about?” look.

“
You are a
bit of a messy eater, too. You need a good woman to take some care
of you.”

“
Did you have
anyone in mind, seeing that we are wandering off the subject of a
murder investigation in which you are currently the chief
suspect?”

“
I do not
know the village very well, Inspector. Nor you. Nor Tom, come to
think of it.”

“
But you
still believe you know who the murderer is?”

“
Yes.”

“
How could
you possibly know that?”

“
Women's
intuition.”

You cough over
the coffee you are not drinking.

“
You are
having me on. No wonder I have problems solving my
cases.”

“
Men are much
less observant than women. You talk more and you listen
less.”

“
And do you
know what I am thinking at this moment?”

“
Of course I
do, Inspector. And I am flattered, without being inclined to share
your fantasy.”

You are
uncertain as to whether to shout at me, or soften your
approach.

“
You flatter
yourself.”

“
May be I
flatter you. I can help you, and maybe I flatter you with the sense
to realise that it is better to work with me rather than against
me.”

“
I think that
I get to choose that.”

“
My point
precisely.”

“
Well, you
are certainly arrogant.”

“
Why would I
deny it? I have a lot to be arrogant about. And you need a lot of
help. Be an obstinate man, if you wish, or solve this case. You
will do it a lot faster if we share ideas. I am not going to
straighten your tie, but I can tidy up your mind.”

You get up
abruptly. “Enough of this. I will come back later.” That is
bravado. You are considering carefully what I am saying.

* *
*

Mary is there.
I march down the stairs mid-morning, having had rather too much to
drink the night before, and there she is, her shoulders to me,
sitting at the kitchen table, ruminating over her
coffee.

She turns
round sharply. “I thought you were a man for a second.”

She appears
angry, not repentant, or sheepish or even ingratiating. Is this how
she handles shame? It seems ungracious to me.

I join her at
the table.

She meets my
eyes. “How have you been?”

“
OK.”

“
Just
OK?”

“
Just
OK.”

“
It has been
hell for me.”

“
Why?”

“
Do I need to
explain?”

“
Mary, you do
not need to explain anything to me.”

“
Then I won't
say anything.”

“
Fine.”

Mary is
daggers drawn. "You are totally devoid of emotion, Julia, aren't
you? You do not feel anything at all. You are dead.”

“
And it is
nice to see you too.”

“
But there is
nothing there. You are not angry. You are not hurt. You are not
relieved. You are not welcoming. You haven't stood up and walked
out. Nothing.”

“
Which of
those would you like me to do?” I smile ironically. “Then I will
know that it is really irritating you when I do not do
it.”

“
That is how
you get your revenge, is it? How small-minded of you!”

“
Up until
now, I was thinking how broad-minded I was being.”

“
Hooray for
heroines then,” she snarls. “A heroine and a martyr.”

“
I am not
dead.”

“
No-one is
dead, dear. Just hurt. I am just hurt.”

“
Is that why
you are trying to hurt me?”

She glances
down at her coffee, and up again. “Yes.”

“
OK. That's
OK, Mary. It is quite useful my not having any feelings
sometimes.”

“
But not the
rest of the time.”

“
No, maybe
not.”

Her hands are
working around her cup. The coffee is becoming tidal. Her eyes
widen. “Will you have me back?”

“
Of course I
will.”

“
Really?”

“
Yes.”

“
Why?”

“
Because I
love you.”

“
Love is not
enough.”

(“Oh, for
God's sake!”). “And because you still owe me some
money.”

“
That all
went weeks ago.”

“
And
Alice?”

“
Don't ask me
about Alice.”

“
OK.”

“
Don't ever
ask me about Alice!” she repeats vehemently.

“
I may not,
but everyone else will, unless she has returned home.”

“
I don't
know. I doubt it. She kept saying she wanted to. Who
knows?”

“
What do I
tell people?”

“
Nothing.”

“
What will
you tell people?”

“
Absolutely
nothing. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to be ashamed of. If
Alice were a man, people would respect my silence.”

“
She is a
young girl. If she is not back at home by now, I assure you that
they are not going to be respectful, not Thibault, not Madame, not
the police, not anyone. They are going to want answers,
Mary.”

“
They are
going to have to want, then. I don't have any.” Her Manchester
accent has slipped back in. I had forgotten her Manchester
accent.

“
It's up to
you, Mary, but I do not think that silence will satisfy them. They
are going to cut up rough.”

“
What can
they do? We spent a few days together, then she moved on. It is
hardly a sin is it?”

“
They will
certainly consider it a sin.”

“
In that case
they can just fuck themselves!”

“
Oh well. I
am going upstairs to have a bath. Are you coming?” I take her hand
to lead her.

She pulls it
away again. "I am going to finish my coffee. I may see you
later."

* *
*

I slip the key
into the lock and the door slams open. I didn't mean to be that
clumsy. There is a scent to the house that I do not remember. It
feels still. The plates are on the table where I left them. I go
over to the cabinet and extract a packet of cigarettes.

I have not
smoked for a while.

It feels good,
the smoke edging down into my lungs and lightening up the whole of
my body. I feel myself again.

I sit back on
the sofa. Now what? So little can happen in weeks, and your life
can be destroyed in 24 hours.

Where is
Gargoyle? “Gargoyle, where are you?” They must have taken you to
the kennels. After a quick search I find a note by the front door.
“Your dog is with me. Ugly, isn't he? Goes with the name I suppose.
Love (I am sorry), Mary.”

There is a
knock at the door. It is Sam. I let her straight in. She is taken
aback by the speed with which I open the door.

“
I am sorry
to disturb you. I know that you have been through a terrible time.
I just felt the need to say hi.”

“
Come
in.”

I gesture Sam
through the lobby towards the sitting room.

“
I am really
sorry about Tom.”

“
I am sure
you are. You knew him well, too.”

“
He was the
best.”

“
Yes, he
was.”

“
I will miss
him.”

“
I will keep
him.”

Sam looks
surprised.

“
In my
heart,” I explain.

"I didn't know
you smoke."

"I
don't."

“
Will you
come out for a meal with me? We can get drunk. Any excuse to get
drunk”

“
With my
reputation? Can you afford it?”

“
I can afford
it. Come on. Let's phone a taxi. Can I use your phone?”

“
What, for
you to phone a taxi for us to go out?”

She looks
alarmed. “Yes,” she says hesitantly.

“
Then do it,
girl.”

She laughs in
relief. “Where is it?”

“
Just there.
Don't forget to pay.”

“
Are you
going to be like this all evening?”

“
No, I have
finished now. Sorry. It is the shock. I suppose that Mich wants her
money."

“
She is
meeting us there. She says that you can pay for the meal. Do you
want to invite Mary?"

"No, not
tonight."

* *
*

Mme. Quelque
Chose de Quelque Part is extremely agitated. She is visibly
shaking, and her face holds a continuous “moue”. The policeman, the
local one from Feyrargues, is alternating between trying to ignore
her and attempting to appease her.